


Hot and Cold

by Brightwinged



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightwinged/pseuds/Brightwinged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“At least I’m not a fire seraph,” Mikleo says.  Sorey’s eyes widen, and he crosses his legs with a wince.</i>
</p><p>Five first times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Some weeks you want to write heavy plotty things; some weeks, you just want to write cute dumb nerds growing up and figuring this whole physical intimacy thing out.
> 
> Only chapter one is safe for work; the rest are very, very much not so. I thought about writing and posting the entire thing as a one-shot, but there is really only so much TEXTWALL O' PORN I can put up at once without shame, whoops.

Their first kiss, as with so many things in their lives, happens in the spirit of experimentation.

Sorey and Mikleo get everywhere and into everything in Elysia growing up, playing and exploring and daring each other into ever more improbable places. The older seraphim try to be careful and discreet, but sometimes the two children still happen upon them in the village’s more secluded corners, or come in for their lessons just a little too early. 

It’s after one memorable occasion, where Cynthia ends up bodily carrying them out of her house and closing the door in their faces to collect herself, that Zenrus firmly commands them to knock before entering another seraph’s dwelling, and gives them a biology textbook to further their education. Mikleo and Sorey are young enough to be personally uninterested, but old enough to be curious, so they go find a warm wall to sit against and crack open the book right away.

“This is really interesting,” Sorey says after a while. “But none of it’s about kissing at _all._ It’s all about reproduction. I thought seraphim couldn’t do that?”

“We can’t!” Mikleo agrees. He sits back on his heels, confused. “I mean, we don’t see goats or prickleboars kissing, either...maybe kissing is just a seraph thing? This is a book from the human world, after all, so maybe it’s different there.”

“I don’t know.” Sorey considers the point, and then his face brightens. “Hey, Mikleo, let me try kissing you! Then we’ll know for sure!”

“What?” Mikleo gapes, and pushes at Sorey’s shoulders where he’s already leaning in. “No way, that doesn’t even make sense!” And it doesn’t make sense in more ways than one, but the one that makes it out of his mouth is, “ _I’m_ the seraph, so I should be kissing _you!”_

Sorey settles back and then _grins,_ from ear to feathery ear. “Bet you can’t,” he lilts, and Mikleo takes the bait and dives at him.

He digs his fingers into Sorey’s sides, and Sorey yelps and goes straight for his ribs, and they end up in a heap, giggling helplessly and slapping at each other’s poking fingers. It almost comes to a draw, except that Sorey accidentally rolls onto the corner of the textbook and squawks in pain and distraction, and Mikleo grabs the opening at once and plants a kiss right on Sorey’s open mouth.

Then they both wince and roll in opposite directions, rubbing where their noses smacked into each other. “Ow,” Mikleo says, and then, as an afterthought, “Ew.”

“Ew yourself,” says Sorey with a grimace. “Your mouth’s _freezing,_ Mikleo!”

“It is not!” 

“Is too!”

It’s Natalie, coming to find them, who finally breaks up their tussle. She’s also the one who finally gives them a general rundown of sex as it applies to people, and adults’ occasional need for privacy, and the value of backing out of a situation without asking too many awkward questions, especially when you’ve just surprised a couple in their own foyer. 

Considering that Natalie is the other half of the couple in question, the conversation is both extremely kind and extremely embarrassing. They take it to heart.


	2. Two

The first time they ever really touch each other is a forgotten memory. There are half-a-dozen possible moments it could be, and if asked which one was the right one, they’d argue. 

Part of the blur is caused by the strange, confusing haze of puberty, made twice as odd by their approaching it in different directions. Sorey’s plagued with physical awkwardness and its attendant miseries but excited to be growing up; Mikleo matures in his smoother cool-blooded way, but is still disquieted by the changes until Sorey distracts him. Part of it is simply that they spend so much time already together, sharing their adventures, their books, their home, their bed, that sex, when it happens, feels more comfortable than monumental.

The first time Mikleo remembers happens in the autumn of one year, cold enough that instead of using the bed, they make up a pallet by the hearth for Sorey’s sake. They usually sleep with a layer of blanket between them, insulating Sorey against Mikleo’s chill, but that night Sorey takes the side of their impromptu bed nearest the fire and Mikleo sits as close to it as he can stand, until his skin is holding real heat and he’s dizzied and heavy with it, before crawling in next to him.

He wakes, somewhat, in the middle of the night. The fire’s burned down to coals and he’s spooned himself up against Sorey’s back, both of them warm. Sorey’s skin is damp; he’s trying to calm his agitated breathing and shift Mikleo’s arms from where they’re slung heavy and low around his waist. Mikleo’s still half-asleep, and his first thought is that Sorey’s had a nightmare, so he just pulls him a little closer, tucks his face more firmly against Sorey’s shoulder. 

“Mikleo, I gotta…” Sorey whispers, tense all over, and that’s when Mikleo registers the hard press against one of his wrists, the slick spot on the fabric of Sorey’s sleeping pants. 

Mikleo vaguely thinks he should feel embarrassed about this, but mostly he just wants Sorey comfortable like he is, wants them both able to go peacefully back to sleep. He shifts his hand so his fingertips slide just under Sorey’s waistband. Sorey makes a funny gasping noise and tenses up even more for a second, and Mikleo makes his own little sound of query, carefully still; waiting. 

At last Sorey laughs, awkward and fond and quiet in the dark, and settles back against him. “Okay...” he says. “Okay.”

Mikleo works his hand the rest of the way down, liking the feel of him, the rough hair at the base, the unfamiliar thickness and curve. Sorey inhales raggedly as Mikleo runs his fingers over that wetness at the tip before wrapping them heavily around his cock. It’s not wholly unlike touching himself, but Sorey’s hotter and more urgent like he is about everything else, unable to keep still. Mikleo keeps his breathing steady as he strokes him off, intent on the way Sorey squirms and thrusts unevenly into his fist, letting him set the pace.

It doesn’t take long before Sorey shudders and slicks Mikleo’s hand, whining a little only when Mikleo keeps moving it around him a few moments too long. Mikleo draws his hand away, drowsily fascinated by the fresh heat on his skin, and rests it low on Sorey’s stomach. There’s a faint needful throb in his own belly and a thought that they should probably get Sorey’s pants into some cold water; both are easy to ignore when Sorey’s gone heavy and entirely relaxed in his arms.

He simply closes his eyes instead, and they both fall back asleep that way, still pressed together. In the morning Sorey has trouble meeting his eyes for the first little bit without blushing, but helps him do the laundry without any complaints.

The first time that sticks in Sorey’s head, on the other hand, is a burst of summer noonlight and sharp movement. It’s a sparring bout on the mountainside that turns into a ticklefight halfway through, during their usual pause to evaluate and argue their techniques. Mikleo is faster but Sorey is stronger and one way or another he finally manages to trap Mikleo flat on his back on the ground, pinning his arms so he can’t eel away and start the battle all over again. 

Mikleo takes his loss with laughing good grace, grass stains all over his clothes, bangs mussed enough that his circlet gleams through. His cheeks are pink, his eyes brilliant, and though they’ve been exercising under the sun for a while, his skin is still rather cool. It feels good under Sorey’s hands, like it always does to be near Mikleo in hot weather. Sorey ducks down, resting his forehead on the triangle of flesh exposed by Mikleo’s open collar with a little outtake of breath. 

He does it without thinking, but it shifts the mood into something less playful, more expectant; Mikleo’s chuckling trails off gradually as he picks up on it, and Sorey can feel him swallow. Sorey lets Mikleo’s wrists go but doesn’t move, his weight easy on him now, and feels a great rush of relief when instead of rolling him off and getting up, Mikleo just strokes his hair and says his name, a smile lingering in his voice.

Mikleo’s clothes look harder to undo than they really are. Sorey has his tunic open in a moment and then takes his time drawing first his fingertips then his mouth down Mikleo’s chest and stomach. They’re quiet, Sorey clumsy and unsure at first but encouraged by the way Mikleo shivers up when he hits the right spots, relaxes down again without hesitation when he moves his mouth away. He’s increasingly drunk on the chill of Mikleo’s skin, the taste of it, the way it warms under his tongue. He lingers where Mikleo seems to like it -- the edges of the narrow blooming bruises where Sorey’s sword landed hits, the cusp of the ticklish areas at Mikleo’s ribs and an unexpected one just under his navel -- and flushes when Mikleo’s hands finally fist in his hair, gone urgent and demanding, tugging him down.

They both hesitate a moment when Sorey gets Mikleo’s pants open, because it’s not like he planned this, and if Sorey’s being honest Mikleo’s erection is sort of intimidating when it’s right up close. When he tilts his head up he can tell Mikleo’s picked up on that, but there’s also this _expression_ he has, his eyes heavy-lidded and his breath coming in little gasps, that Sorey can barely believe he’s responsible for putting there. Sorey licks up the length of him without taking his eyes off Mikleo’s face, wanting to see more, grinding a little where Mikleo’s leg is still pressed between his thighs. Mikleo strains up from the grass, eyes squeezing shut, and that drives nervousness and second thoughts straight out of Sorey’s head.

He tries to be careful, he really does, but Mikleo writhes underneath him when he slides his lips awkwardly over the head of his cock, and he has to grab Mikleo’s hips tight just to keep them both where they are. It’s strange and unfamiliar and almost too much, his mouth already feeling full and stretched just from this, the taste of Mikleo intense on his tongue, and he’s doing his absolute best to stay gentle, to breathe through his nose and keep his teeth from scraping. 

He lifts Mikleo a bit as he braces himself back on his knees, and that makes things easier somehow, smoother. Mikleo tries to buck up against his grip, the movements sliding him just a little deeper into the heat of Sorey’s mouth. It doesn’t choke him, Mikleo doesn’t have enough leverage for that, but it’s desperate enough that Sorey can tell he’s close and starts to suck harder on him, to urge him over the edge. It’s too sloppy and too wet and Mikleo’s beyond caring, both of them are, Mikleo biting down hard on a shout as he comes.

Sorey chokes then, rolls off him immediately, and for a minute he’s helpless to do anything but cough into his hand. Instead of relaxing Mikleo winds up sprawled onto his side and rubbing Sorey’s back as best as he can, and it feels like a bit of a disaster overall until he recovers enough to look up at Mikleo again. Mikleo’s concerned and clearly self-conscious, but he’s also flushed clear down to his chest, his lower lip bruised and swollen with the marks of his teeth, more disheveled and undone than Sorey’s ever seen him. Sorey gulps audibly and licks his lips, still tasting and feeling Mikleo on his tongue, and Mikleo goes even redder, staring back at him.

“I’m all right,” he tells Mikleo, once he can breathe properly.

Mikleo sags down in relief, and after a moment, buffets Sorey weakly upside the head. “ _Warn_ me next time,” he growls, in a tone that lets Sorey know he’s not really mad. He puts one arm over his face, then seems to recollect himself, finally starting to pull his clothes shut. “We’re not going to be able to spar more today. Let’s head back inside.”

“That’s fair,” Sorey says, and then, fighting a smile as it sinks in, “Next time?”

“Uh-huh. But, that’s not happening today either.” Mikleo looks over at him, deliberately eyeraking him from head to toe. That’s when Sorey realizes he’s still hard, and that Mikleo very much intends to leave him that way until they get back home, where it’s more private and more sensible to try out things like this.

That’s sort of terrible, but he still can’t help but laugh, giddy with the newness and absurdity of the situation. “Yeah?” 

Mikleo’s expression softens. “Mm,” he hums, and the corners of his mouth tilt up the slightest bit too, and Sorey _squirms_ when he says, “My turn.”


	3. Three

The first time one of them is inside the other -- not counting armatization, because _that_ just goes places no one wants to go -- it’s Rose’s fault. Or rather, Mikleo later tries to say it’s Rose’s fault for putting them in the back room of the Sparrowfeathers’ hideout for the night. Sorey points out that it’s actually their fault: they’d decided to look through the books there, and he was the one who’d found the seraphim-crafted sex manual stuck down at the bottom of a chest, and it was Mikleo who’d said, once he’d stopped blushing so much, that they might as well take it with them, since the merchants weren’t going to be able to see or sell it anyway.

At least it’s not Zaveid’s fault. They’ve determined, through discreet questioning, that ‘Z. Wilder’ is not, in fact, his secret pen name, which is just -- thank goodness. Mikleo never wants to imagine the wind seraph with a Normin again. Actually, he never wants to imagine anyone he knows doing ninety-five percent of the things in the book, ever again. Sorey trying to start an evaluating debate about them had been horrifying.

The other five percent have promise, though. That’s how they find themselves together in an inn room later on, the others embarrassingly but firmly sent away for the night, Sorey leaned back on his elbows and Mikleo kneeling between his parted knees. The book’s open to a certain page on the bed next to them, a couple of gel bases ready next to it. Both of them are scanning the diagrams again even though they must have looked a hundred times each already, and Mikleo for one isn’t sure if he’s doing one more actual check, or if it’s just to avoid staring at Sorey and freezing up like a startled goat. His eyes keep drifting haplessly back towards Sorey, anyway: he hadn’t noticed before, but what with the travel and the constant fighting, his friend’s built up even more muscle in his chest and arms since they left Elysia.

It’s Sorey, finally looking up himself, who finally breaks the embarrassed, speculative silence. “I’m still not really sure about this,” he admits, but there’s a laugh twinging under the words. Something about the sound loosens the knot in Mikleo’s belly almost instantly; gets him to lean in and kiss some of their nervousness away.

“I _said_ I could try it first,” Mikleo points out, when they can breathe again.

Sorey just grins up at him, silly with the tension broken. “Yeah, but I figured out the door puzzle before you did, didn’t I? No takebacks.”

“Fine,” Mikleo huffs. He reaches down to cup between Sorey’s legs without warming his hands, first, taking a bit of revenge by not warning him. Sorey yelps something like _jerk!_ and bucks his hips underneath him, flushing hard but not quite losing his humor. 

Mikleo half-expects him to go in for another distraction when he reaches up, to tickle his ribs or his stomach, but instead Sorey just settles his hands right over Mikleo’s hips, solid and steady. He’s built up thicker calluses on his ungloved fingertips, Mikleo notes, and gathered more scars all over, too. The armatus and the seraphs’ healing artes are proof against a lot of injuries, but sometimes they have to fight hard and long, and any wounds left open for more than an hour or so tend to leave some kind of mark on human flesh. A lot of these are probably from the fight on the cliffside, too, he realizes, in that long frightening period when their blessings couldn’t touch him directly.

Sorey lets him look, soothes Mikleo’s contemplative frown away with his fingertips. Once he leans into that, his mouth on the soft skin of Sorey’s palm, it’s not so awkward anymore, both of them relaxing into each other.

“What is it?” Sorey asks. He’s still got his other hand on Mikleo’s hip, tracing little patterns of heat there. His bare thighs are brushing Mikleo’s chilly sides, and if that’s uncomfortable for him he’s never let on.

“You’ve changed, that’s all.” Mikleo doesn’t know a better way to say it right now, sentiments stuck in his throat like his tears were earlier, quieting their mood again. He hurries to add, “It’s not bad.”

“Yeah?” Sorey looks thoughtful, for a moment. “You have too, I think. I like it.”

There’s a lot of ways to take that one -- what does Sorey mean anyway, Mikleo hasn’t physically changed or been scarred all that much, doesn’t think his internal priorities have really shifted -- but before he can work himself up to indignance about it, Sorey smooths a hand up his side and back, avoiding his ticklish ribs. The heat of him melts into Mikleo’s muscles, and even if he’s not digging his fingers in Mikleo finds himself easing up again under the touch anyway, stretching under it like a cat, sudden fierce want spiking through his blood, up his spine.

He picks up one of the gel bases at last, scoring it open with a thumbnail, letting the cool salve inside spill over his fingers. He reaches for Sorey’s hand after that, lifting it off his shoulder, and Sorey wiggles a bit, biting his lip on another laugh.

“What’re you thinking, Mikleo?” Sorey’s hand is so warm. 

Mikleo laces their fingers into each other, slickness between their palms. He tries not to let his voice wobble, and it comes out sounding like an analytical scoff. “I’m not _actually_ going to have you without both of us being prepared,” he explains, jerking his head over at the diagram. “That means I need you to warm me up, too.”

He half-expects Sorey to laugh at him again, but Sorey’s eyes just crinkle a little at the corners, a flush rising in his cheeks. “Can do,” he murmurs, and he’s taking Mikleo’s hand between both of his, letting more heat bleed into him, get his body temperature there closer to a human’s. 

It feels shockingly intimate, doing this skin-to-skin instead of with a fire or other heat source, and Sorey hasn’t even touched him anywhere really sensitive yet. Mikleo bites back a groan despite himself. “Enough,” he says at last, voice rough.

Sorey hums under his breath, and coaxes Mikleo to lean down over him, to kiss him. They reach for each other at the same time; Mikleo’s fingers touch the sensitive flesh between Sorey’s legs at the same moment Sorey’s hand closes around his cock, both of them fumbling eyes-closed now, easy and familiar. The book lies forgotten next to them. Mikleo can’t think about anything but how _hot_ Sorey is in more ways than one; carefully coaxing, pushing inside him, stretching, hearing and feeling the little noises and jerks Sorey makes in response, Sorey’s fingers stroking him slick and hard until they’re both panting, ready.

“Mikleo,” Sorey groans, hooking a leg hard around his waist, dragging him closer. His cock’s stiff against the muscles of Mikleo’s stomach, and he’s the kind of aroused where the cold turns him on more, makes him rock up against Mikleo, instead of calming him down. “C’mon.”

“Impatient,” Mikleo laughs back, breathless, but he’s already pressing closer to Sorey, pressing forward, and oh. _Oh._ He’s warmed up but Sorey’s burning around him, aching, welcoming him inside, and it’s almost too much to stand, to keep his movement gentle, gradual. Sorey’s not keeping still for this either; Mikleo wants to settle for a second, to ask him if he’s okay, but Sorey’s hips jerk harder, _onto_ him, and all Mikleo can manage is a broken hiss of Sorey’s name, bracing his knees against the mattress and looping an arm underneath him to support him as they move.

There’s no room for any of the finesse he’d planned, Sorey’s mouth bruising on Mikleo’s collarbone, Mikleo skating his free hand desperately over Sorey’s new scars like he’s trying to learn them all at once, the two of them locked together. Sorey as a vessel is safety; Sorey in bed, physical, is something else entirely. He feels like he’s drowning and dragging Sorey down with him, desire coursing in his veins and breaking free of his control. He’s lost in the heat and tightness and flex of Sorey’s muscles, and he’s worried he’s hurting him but he can’t stop, Sorey writhing under him, clutching him just as close, _harder_ and _more_ panted in Mikleo’s ear. 

Mikleo is very bad at not giving Sorey what he wants, and at last he hauls Sorey’s hips up, pulls away for one agonizing second, nearly slams back into him in one heavy thrust.

Sorey bites him as he comes, and Mikleo’s never felt that so closely, wet heat and Sorey still moving around him, not slowing down in his relief. Mikleo moves and moves in him instead of pulling out and it doesn’t take much more to follow suit, orgasm tearing through him with the same unbearable intensity, Sorey crying out muffled into his skin, both of them collapsing into a heap on the bed after, shivering.

Mikleo’s also very bad at not being concerned when he’s actually lucid, so he stirs first when they’ve come back to themselves a little, tries to be as gentle as he can as he eases out and cleans them both up as best as he’s able. Sorey whines and pulls him back down as soon as he’s done, the two of them nestled together. Mikleo’s skin is still tingling everywhere they touch, like that intensity’s been printed on him permanently. He wonders if Sorey’s feeling the same.

“That was amazing.” 

Oh.

“You’re still going to be sore,” Mikleo sighs, but any further admonishment dries up in his mouth when he looks up and sees Sorey’s wide, dazed smile at him.

The others are also going to tease them like anything the next day, especially if they’re not sneaky enough about putting the book back in their travel packs.

Worth it, Mikleo decides, and gathers Sorey close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise i still enjoy writing these nerds sometimes


End file.
